


Choosing Purpose

by RooOJoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, POV Female Character, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18510814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooOJoy/pseuds/RooOJoy
Summary: ". . . At that moment, she realized that not only did she want to be that; she wanted to be that with him. She wanted to live her life uninhabited - she wanted to continue her job, answer to no one but who had her best interest at heart. She wanted to be happy, and while she wasn’t sure if she deserved it, she wanted him."





	Choosing Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 3. Much love to my Beta, I_was_BOTWP and Alpha, Rosella Burgundy - you two keep me sane, make me laugh, and most importantly make this journey worthwhile. 
> 
> Big, massive kudos to Katalina Riddle for her beautiful gift of aesthetic for this fic. 💜
> 
> Song Prompt: Simple Man by Shinedown

 

The euphoria she felt as he towered over her was something she couldn’t get enough of - she craved it. His strong arms trapped her beneath him, muscles quivering as he moved against her in a rhythm that had her crying out well before she had intended. She had always considered herself more of the dominant person when it came to sex, but this man made her want to be taken - she wanted _him_ to make _her_ scream rather than finding the joy in bringing her own pleasure.

He followed behind her, a grunt on his lips as his eyes fluttered shut. She loved watching him peak. His face, while always glorious to look at, took on a whole new expression that had her wondering what other sides there were of the rugged and adventurous Charlie Weasley. His hard body panted heavily on top of her, weighing her down into the mattress. He rolled to the side, their skin sheened with sweat as he worked to catch his breath.

She moved to raise herself from under his arm, but he tightened it around her, entrapping her against his side. “You’re not going anywhere yet.” His voice came out muffled as he was face down into the downy pillow.

“Like you, or anyone else for that matter, could stop me,” she answered back, an edge to her voice that most people would find bitchy, but it was the only one she had. Against her better judgment, though, she snuggled deeper into his embrace, and his body shook slightly in laughter.

Turning his head, his fiery, long locks fell back over the pillow, a few strands finding their way into his eyes. His lips quirked up to her as he snaked his other arm under her and caged her against his naked chest. “You know you’d let me stop you every single time,” he whispered, as he hooked his leg over hers.

Reaching up, she brushed the hair from his face, letting her palm rest on his cheek. He hadn’t shaved since the morning, and his stubble was rough against her palm. His deep blue eyes contrasted with the golden hue of his sun-kissed skin, and the scars that littered his body were most intriguing. How she wished to tell him the truth - a truth she was still struggling to own herself. She didn’t want to leave his side. She wanted to be with him, and finally she had admitted she wanted to be with him in more than just a physical form. She couldn’t though. It would figure that as soon she was able to convince herself that loving someone was not a reproachful act, her parents informed her that they had signed a contract to have her marry a wealthy pureblood from France.

Her eyes betrayed her thoughts, and he noticed. “Pansy, love, what’s wrong?”

She pulled hard on the mask of indifference - the one she wore daily in front of everyone. She even donned it in the mirror, convincing herself that she needed no one or anything to make her feel. Feelings were for the weak. In order for her to survive in her world, she would live for fake smiles and backhanded compliments. Surely, the rewards of being beyond fortuitous were sufficient.

Extracting herself from his arms, he weakly tried to hold her in place, but a following scathing look from her, Charlie let her go without comment.

“It’s nothing of your concern, Weasley. I believe I will take a shower.”

She turned from him, the hurt in his eyes evident across his face. An ache in her heart blossomed and settled heavily through her blood. She was not supposed to accept that ache; he wasn’t supposed to cause that feeling. She did not warrant that involuntary reaction he constantly made her have.

The mirror above the sink reflected her naked flesh back at her. Her pale skin was flushed red in places and her long dark hair needed a hairbrush. She couldn’t help but notice her dark eyes; even when she lifted her chin in the air, feigning a look of indifference, her eyes still looked haunted and lost.

Moving away from the mirror she headed to the shower. Turning it on full hot, she waited for the steam to rise and the air to become muggy, before she lowered the temperature and stepped into the water. As hard as she tried to scrub the ache from her skin, it would not go away. She knew it was because the pain was deep inside of her, but she scrubbed harder, that thought making her feel weak. She heaved a heavy sigh and resolved to let the stream of water wash away the emotions that were attempting to hold on to her, weigh her down, trap her like she was a helpless victim to their knotted vines.

The part that caused the intense pain was that she had to let him go; there wasn’t another option. Her parents had signed a contract, and it was her duty as a pureblood witch to obey her family’s wishes. They had brought her up with a certain level of duties that had been ingrained in her since birth. Memories of childhood were scarce - she figured she had deliberately put them in a box in the corner of her mind. It didn’t matter; her mother, father, and even nannies and house-elves reminded her of what her requirements were.

Some of her earlier memories as a child were always of a nanny or house-elf. Her mother was rarely there. She remembered a story an elf had told her once - she knew at the time that the elf was being kind, sharing a story from her youth, but Pansy had asked the right questions to reveal what she knew was not meant to be shared with her. After her mother had given birth to her, she had locked the baby away at the other end of the manor and only the elves had cared for the infant in the first few days. Once her mother had healed, and it was customary for visitors, her mother had reluctantly let the babe rest in a cradle in the sitting room where company came to ogle over the unfortunate situation of a girl being born first.

By the time she had entered Hogwarts, she had been pampered by every source she could ruse into her lair. Her parents had no time for her, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t figured out how to get exactly what she wanted from them in return for leaving them alone. It made her feel like she could control situations in her favor, which quickly morphed into self-righteousness. At some point - she wasn’t exactly sure when it happened - the feeling of indifference became more prominent than pride.

If she had to narrow down when she first started feeling detached from situations, rather than wanting to command the details, was in her seventh year at Hogwarts - when the Carrow’s ruled the corridors. Survival was essential, but the hatred that was spewed and the bigotry towards fellow classmates made her skin crawl. Having to torture children left her with an unease, both physically and emotionally, that at seventeen she couldn’t find words for.

It wasn’t until after the war, when she had decided to travel abroad, that she began to have wavering thoughts of the importance of her life. The baggage and weight of the war wasn’t lost on her, and with the need for survival eliminated, she couldn’t avoid the onslaught of painful images and memories. They plagued her during the day and nights. It wasn’t fair, yet none of it mattered either.

Now, she stood in the scalding hot water, staring at her fingertips as they grew wrinkly. She couldn’t help but think of how much Charlie made all those thoughts and feelings from the past fade into nothing. He made her smile, and a real smile that wasn’t because she had outsmarted someone or gotten exactly what she wanted in some form. He made her stomach roll in nervousness when his piercing blue eyes met hers. While his body screamed like he’d be rough and hard with her, his touch was gentle and caressing. She had never had anyone treat her as if she was worth being gentle with. The way he talked to her, like he cared what she had to say, it was foreign to her and frequently left her uneasy as if she wasn’t deserving of such devotion.

The curtain opened and there he stood. His smile was soft and his eyes warm - a reminder of just how easily he could know that her earlier comment didn’t have anything to do with him.

“Move over, witch, you’re hogging the whole shower,” he playfully said as he stepped in, immediately wrapping his arms around her. She shivered as the feel of his cold skin pressed against her flaming flesh. He turned her so he was in the full stream of water, never letting go of her and never leaving her eyes.

Smiling to herself, knowing what was about to happen she watched humorously as the hot water hit Charlie’s skin. He arched his back, quickly stepping from under the stream and swinging her around, her body relaxing against the scalding spray.

“Merlin, Pans, how the hell do you even stand in that hot of water?”

She giggled, a noise that wasn’t a fake trap to get her way, but a real girly laugh he had pulled from her. “I thought you enjoyed playing with hot things,” she said while placing her hands on his chest, her fingernails lightly scratching through the hairs there.

His eyes narrowed, and he pulled her closer to him so she reached up to wrap her hands around his neck. He leaned down to capture her lips with his own before trailing his teeth over her neck. Against her flesh, he told her, “I don’t mind playing with fire. I’ve made it my job to understand the things that most people won’t go near, but I find there’s more of a payoff in learning how to handle the flames.”

He bit down on the skin and she cried out, the scorching water long forgotten.

* * *

Pansy tapped her manicured nails on the arm of the chair she rested in. Her spine was rigid, her chin held high, and her legs crossed at the ankles - just as she was taught to sit.

“Don’t fidget, Pansy. It’s rude and not how a proper lady should await her guest.”

She ceased the tapping and set her hands in her lap. Her mother had been nagging her since she joined her at breakfast that morning. She had arrived back in England and she was set to meet the man her parents had sold her off to. The bitterness she felt was locked away in a deep vault, and she donned her best air of disinterest. She had let her mother order the house-elves around as they dressed Pansy and made to coiffe her hair elegantly. Her mother never fretted over her unless it was a situation that was to benefit her own mother's agenda.

Now, she sat in the sitting room awaiting her suitor. A small voice whispered its displeasure inside her mind. _You don’t have to do this. This isn’t what you want._ She pushed the small voice away and reminded herself what she had been ingrained to do, to know, to be.

Her mother’s voice echoed loudly in her skull, bouncing around with vigor and deep intention. _Pansy, your duty as the heir of the Parkinson house is to marry a wealthy man and produce his heir. In unfortunate circumstances, and as the only child born to our house being a female, this is the only way we can assure our name amongst the purebloods stays whole. You will do this; it is your duty._

The shrill and cold voice of her mother disappeared as a soft pop echoed in the silent room and a house-elf appeared. Her squeaky voice announced a visitor and then she was gone again. The door opened and a tall man made his appearance on the threshold. Pansy’s mother stood and Pansy followed her. She took in his appearance and wasn’t displeased with what she was met with. He would tower over many easily, and by the way his robes fit snuggly to his frame she knew he must keep a rather fit body. His dark hair contrasted with his lighter eyes, and as he politely greeted the lady of the manor, she noticed a small dimple in his right cheek. He couldn’t be over forty, and she silently thanked the gods that if she would have to marry someone that wasn’t of her choosing, at least she would stand next to someone that might rival her own appearance.

The thought made her internally gag. Since when did the shallow image of what was important shift so dramatically that she actually felt like she wanted to be in love with the man she married. Yes, she had wanted a life like this at one time. Yes, she had visions of her wedding day being shared with a man of great wealth and of high stature. But at some point all of that seemed to seep away and didn’t seem as important. Now, looking at this man who was talking with her mother - pleasantries she wasn’t even taking in - she realized that this isn’t something she could do anymore. If she was going to follow through with this marriage, she vowed that she would get to know this man. She would not brush him off and act as if she didn’t care, because as much as it scared her to admit, she cared . . . a lot. She wanted to live a purposeful life.

“Pansy,” her mother’s voice interrupted her silent pep talk, “this is Thomas Francois Riffault.”

As any well brought up lady would, Pansy bowed her head and bent her knee in a slight curtsy. When she rose, she met his eyes. They were a light blue, almost icy in contrast or something that reminded her of a sandy beach on a tropical island - they seemed like kind eyes. His mouth tilted in a smile and the dimple in his cheek brought her attention. “Pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle.” His voice was deep and the timbre in his tone could command a room. It brought chills across her arms and as he grasped her hand and placed a gentle sweep of his lips across the back of her palm, she couldn’t repress the shudder that slightly shook her form.

She smiled up to him, a genuine smile.

* * *

Weeks had passed since she had met the Frenchman, Thomas. He had escorted her on many dates, and she felt as though things were progressing nicely. He was ever the gentleman; taking her to nice dinners and the wizards theatre, guiding her by her palm snuggly nestled in his elbow, and always gracing her with compliments.

As the dates wore on, she noticed little tells of his real personality. At first she thought it was endearing the way he ordered her drink for her, but as she politely refused the white wine with a red, she watched his eyes narrow and he pointedly refused to speak to her for several minutes. It grated her nerves that he never asked her opinion, but she shoved the negative thoughts down as though she were the poison that was spoiling the atmosphere.

She had attempted to talk with Thomas about her career; he had asked politely what she liked to do in her spare time. When she had excitedly begun to regale him with her most recent project she was working on in Italy, his eyes had glazed over and she fell back to asking him questions about himself. It was beginning to be evident that this was another relationship that was surface level at best.

It wasn’t until the fourth outing, when he had reached out to pull her close against him and kissed her slowly, that she realized that something was off. He had smiled widely as if he had won the first place prize, but she felt like she’d swallowed a dungbomb and the insides of her body squirmed in protest.

That night, she rested in her childhood bed, wishing for anything that she could be back to work - a welcoming distraction to her racing mind. Her parents had asked her to take a leave during the courting process - they had asked her to quit her career, but she had pointedly refused. She loved travelling abroad as a magical artefacts restoration expert. She yearned to research over the next piece brought to her, to help display the art, and give presentations to her peers about the history and her findings.

Her work gave her so much pride, and ultimately it’s where she met Charlie. She had tried so hard to keep him from her thoughts the past few weeks. She had left Romania and told him she’d be gone for a while visiting her parents. She didn’t have the heart to tell him what she was really doing. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t owe him an explanation, anyway. He was used to her going places for months on end while she travelled for work.

She began to compare Thomas to Charlie, and it wasn’t even consciously. While both men were big and commanding, Thomas had a forced air of superiority that Charlie naturally pulled off. Thomas was always dressed in his best; Charlie could somehow walk into a room with torn trousers and heads would turn. They both had blue eyes, but she noticed that Thomas rarely held her gaze, while Charlie hardly left it.

No matter their physical differences, she noticed - in a way she had never taken a moment to see before - the way each man made her feel. Thomas took her to extravagant places, buying her lovely things, and being a man many women would swoon over. However, he left her feeling like something was missing inside, and while she couldn’t dismiss that she loved to be spoiled it also felt fake and empty.

Charlie made her laugh. He had a way of knowing there was something wrong or amiss, and he would trap her with his eyes. The way he would hold her gaze, as if he was whispering in her ear that everything would be okay, and she would feel her body relax. When he kissed her, it was full of desire and she could feel all of him in that kiss. She did not even understand that type of emotion existed. Being able to truly be yourself uninhibited was unfamiliar to her - that is until now when she realized what she was walking away from.  

Rolling over onto her side, she stared up into the night sky. Was she giving Thomas the full benefit? She had to admit; she was playing the game just as well as he was. She was being the ever proper pureblood witch. Maybe it would be beneficial for them to put the masks down and open up to each other. If they were to be married, there was no need for there to be a game between them. She wanted to see the man for who he was.

Thomas arrived on time as he had every other date before. The house-elf announced his arrival, and they set off to dinner to a sophisticated wizarding restaurant in Diagon Alley. So far the evening had been like all the others before, but she could feel there was tension between them. She wasn’t sure what she had done, but it almost felt as though he was upset with her.

He ordered their drinks for them, and Pansy smiled in pleasure as he picked the exact wine she would’ve chosen from the menu. Once their order had been placed, she had devised a way for her plan to put the masks down and level the field.

“My mother has been asking me how our dates are going? She mentioned that she’d enjoy hosting your parents this weekend.” She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his face, watching for his tell. She knew he had to have one. If she could find it, then maybe she could out him and the line would be drawn for them to be open and forthcoming about where this _relationship_ was headed.

“Please thank your mother for me. That is so kind of her to offer, but I will have to decline on my parents’ behalf. This weekend is such short notice.”

She noticed then that his left brow rose a tick, almost involuntarily, and he settled in to take a drink of his brandy. Before she could point out that she knew he was lying, he continued on in a rather hurried tone. “I  will be heading back to France tonight. There is business I need to attend to personally.” Her breath caught in her chest. This was sudden and the frostiness he was showing her earlier was now clear. He avoided her eyes and took a large gulp of his liquor, her voice being momentarily gone. “I will draw up the papers for our marriage, and we can arrange a bride-meet in the next month.”

If she wasn’t raised to hide her emotions, she was sure her eyes would’ve narrowed and her lip curl up in distaste. Instead, she raised her chin and pulled her shoulders back. “Well, Thomas, that is a rather _romantic_ way of proposing. Shall we discuss the logistics over the appetizer or the main course?”

He couldn’t help his response to her snide and sarcastic remark - his face reddened slightly and he straightened in his seat, eyes darkening as a flash of anger crossed them. In this state, his French accent became more pronounced. “We both know this is a marriage of legality only. It’s time we had this talk and quit playing games with each other.”

Her own thoughts were thrown back into her face and she had to admit, they stung. “Well, what do you need to propose regarding our _union_?” She spit the last word with more venom than she intended.

His anger seemed to deflate a bit and he sighed.  “I am not a bad man, Pansy.” She almost wondered if he was just as put out with the arrangement as she was feeling.

“I didn’t say you were,” she hesitated before trying for honesty. “I just . . . well, I want more.”

He smiled at her, and she immediately felt like a child as the adult looked down on the silliness of youth with a condescending smirk. His next words were frank and pointed, his voice firm of intention. “I will not lay a hand on you in harm, but in return, I insist on fidelity. I will provide you with children and enough money for you to do whatever you please. I require you to be the face of my name and host many events and attend social gatherings with me. I can not accept you to have a job of any sort - your role as my wife is to uphold my family’s name and reputation. I’m sure with time, we will be able to keep your name of value as well.”

Pansy felt like he had slapped her - the exact opposite of his promise. The longer he spoke, the more furious she got. She didn’t really understand why - this was a completely normal way for someone of her upbringing to be married and live. If she were sixteen, she would have felt like the luckiest of witches to be chosen by the French family. However, times had changed - she had changed.

She wanted more. Was it too much to ask that she keep a career that she was flourishing at? She knew and understood what pureblood cultures required from wives, but since the war, times had changed. Those ideologies were different now . . . right? Maybe she had spend too much time away from Britain, away from the culture she was raised in, because now her own voice had grown inside herself and she knew there was more out there to seek from life.

He reached across the table in the attempt to grab her fingers, but she was too quick and snatched them away. She could feel her body shaking and she wasn’t used to the upsurge of emotions that were beginning to show even with her attempt at holding them in. She needed to get away - to escape long enough to find the face of detachment.

“I need to use the ladies' room,” she spoke in a whisper, knowing if she spoke at a normal volume, her voice would shake. The tears were welling in her eyes, but luckily she held them back from spilling down her cheeks, and hurriedly made her way to the loo.

Staring in the mirror at her reflection, she couldn’t remove the haunted look in her eyes. It was as though her entire being was betraying her - crying out for things to be different if only she would allow herself the peace of doing it. She had to face this though, she had to get through this dinner and find a way of making a peace for what her life was about to become.

Her face was pale and even though she was able to hold back the tears, her makeup still was smudged. She applied a quick glamour and thanked the gods she always packed a mini medical kit in her purse. Downing a small dosage of a Calming Draught she took a deep breath and made her way back to the table.

Getting through dinner was not as easy as she may have once found it on previous dates. Certain things Thomas would say about their marriage contract or how he would need her to perform her role - she felt like she was being trained for a job she never applied for. Thanks to the Draught, she made it through with a light smile on her face and polite nodding so he would think she was paying attention to him.

Inside, though, she was at war with herself. She didn’t want to leave her job, but she also didn’t want to disappoint her parents. She knew what she had been raised to do and as much as she didn’t want to marry right now and have children, there was the part of her that knew one day she would want those things. If she passed this up, would she be alone forever? Would she even find a peace in life on her own?

As he walked her to the Apparition point, he pulled her to a stop. Placing his finger and thumb on her chin, he tilted it up to his face. “Pansy, I know we still have a lot to learn about each other, but I’m sure over time you could learn to love me, and I you.”

She cringed as he lowered his lips to hers in a kiss she supposed he meant to be sweet. She nodded in return, but words were not something she had for him right now. Mostly everyone thought she was a right bitch - someone that could fillet you with a single look or snarky comment. But she was a person after all - a person who did actually feel, and currently she felt lonely . . . so very, very lonely.

He left her there, heading back to his hotel, allowing her to apparate home alone with the promise to owl her within the next week so they could move forward with their proceedings. She didn’t know what to do or where to turn. She stood in the alley for what felt like seconds, but must’ve been much longer as a passerby asked if she needed help. This was her breaking point - if she was to ever act out a fleeting moment of reckless abandonment, this was it.

She apparated straight to Malfoy Manor, where Draco met her in the parlor. “Pansy, what brings you here at this late hour?”

“I need a Portkey, Draco.” There was no need for her to provide pleasantries. Her and Draco had been friends since childhood. Much more at one time, before they decided friends was best. He had been the one to help her see that her love for History of Magic could morph into a career. He also was the person who helped her gain the position she held now, and she couldn’t be more grateful of his friendship.

“Unauthorised Portkey, huh? You know that really isn’t something I can easily do for you.” He looked at her, his brow quirked up in interest. “Where are you running to? And why?”

“I am not running, you prat, I need to . . . see a friend.” While she wasn’t surprised in his reaction, she felt the bubble of anger as his features morphed into one of enjoyment.

Draco tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm . . . I see. This _friend_ you say, they wouldn’t by chance be in Romania, would they?”

“Dammit, Draco, can you help me or not?”

“Don’t mind him. He can be such a fucking arse.” Ginny pushed past her husband coming to stand in front of Pansy. She held out an eagle feather quill and placed the tip of her wand to the stem, muttering, _Portus._ “Here,” she said, handing over the newly created Portkey. “I know he’ll be there - he’s playing tonight.”

Pansy felt the familiar pull behind her navel just as she heard Draco’s whine. “Gin, that was my good quill.”

* * *

Pansy landed unsteadily at the back entrance of the pub in the small village a few kilometres from the dragon sanctuary. She wasn’t even going to be concerned with how Ginny knew where she needed the portkey to send her. The youngest of the Weasley children was a Snake in Lion’s skin and had known about her and Charlie’s relationship since the beginning. Pansy was grateful for the witch to be sufficient in her Portkey knowledge; what intrigued her the most was what Ginny had meant by Charlie playing tonight - what did she mean _playing_. She set her foot forward and approached the door to the pub.

She and Charlie frequently met here, and she knew that he liked to come here on weekends for the entertainment. If he wasn’t here, she would send an owl to him. The bar was full of noise, and as soon as she entered she could feel the bass of music - someone playing the guitar and singing an upbeat melody. People chattering and laughing while she went in farther - the place was rather crowded.

Luckily, the person she was looking for was easy to spot. He stood tall, his flaming red locks tied back at the nape of his neck. He looked happy, a smile playing on his face before he threw his head back and laughed at something the barman had said. Her heart felt lighter seeing him. So much of her wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his middle and never let go. Instead, she watched him for a moment - the all too familiar fear of what she was feeling taking hold and rooting her to the spot.

He grabbed the tray of drinks and proceeded to a table of other men she knew as people that also worked at the reserve, but he must have felt her stare because he turned almost immediately, meeting her eyes. She always enjoyed how easily she could read him - he wore a glass face and his feelings were on display. His eyes widened for only a second before the lines next to them crinkled as his lips pulled up into a smile. He set the tray down and moved towards her.

Working his way across the room, she could feel his eyes reading her. While she sure has hell did not wear a glass face, somehow he could always tell when something was amiss. He stood tall in front of her and placed his hand on her arm before leaning in and kissing her cheek. “Pansy, I’m so glad you’re here, but what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Is a girl not allowed to come visit her friend?”

She knew she sounded off. Even her words betrayed her inner turmoil. He recognized it too and raised a brow in her direction. She shrugged and leaned into him - her defenses long gone, especially with the draining effects of the calming draught. He pulled her to the back of the room to a small table for two, partially hidden behind a small wall, but still open to see the room.

She didn’t know when or how, but he had ordered two shots of firewhisky that were now being placed in front of them. He motioned for her to drink up and downed his own right afterwards.

“Spill it, witch. What’s got you this state?”

For the past few weeks, she had yearned to see him, to speak to him, just to listen to his voice. She had pushed the feelings down repeatedly, branding them as weakness. Now, sitting across from him, she couldn’t hold back any of the thoughts and feelings she had been exhausting herself with. She slowly unleashed the entire thing to him starting with her parents urging her to marry, to leave her job, and finally setting up a marriage with someone from France. She told him of Thomas and his marriage proposal.

For someone who readily showed their emotions, he did a remarkable job of keeping a straight face and letting her get through her story. By the time she was finished, she had tears in her eyes and a sadness in her voice she really didn’t know she was capable of readily showing another human being.

His eyes were locked on her face and it took a moment for her to realize the music had stopped and a barman was standing on the stage giving the crowd a welcoming announcement of the next singer. His words blurred together, but there was no mistaking the name ‘Charlie Weasley’ as the barman shouted, causing the crowd to erupt in an enthusiastic chatter.

He didn’t move, and she looked at him, questioning his involvement. The crowd died down, and again his name was announced. Ginny’s words clicked into place now. “You better go,” she finally said.

“You won’t leave?” he asked, his voice firm but still a question in his plea.

She shook her head reassuring him that she wasn’t going to leave, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead before moving towards the stage. She watched him move from their tiny table and walk to the small stage in the room's corner. It was raised and the magical lights that hung from the ceiling shined down in the perfect way so that Charlie was on display to the entire pub. She knew that he played guitar, and she had even witnessed him plucking away at a tune before, but she had never heard him sing.

She was intrigued to say the least. For the moment, her worries fell away and all she could do was watch him as he picked up his instrument, swung the strap over his shoulder, and took a seat on the bar stool in the middle of the stage. His arms flexed as his fingers slowly pulled at the stings adjusting the tune. His cheeks were tinged pink, and she briefly wondered if it was from the warmth of the room or maybe alcohol induced. Taking a deep breath, he began the first chords of the music. His fingers shook a bit and the last note faltered. She wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t have a second to even process all of what she had said before he was briskly swept up and shoved off into a different moment.

Another deep breath, and he looked up straight out past the crowd, piercing his gaze directly on her. Pansy could feel the insides of her stomach roll over before tightening like he had just knotted his hand around her soul. He kept his eyes trained on her and ran his fingers over the chords again. The sound reverberated through the air, and he began to sing, raising the hairs on her arms. He became lost in the music with the first few lines, his voice rich and deep, but smooth and tender.

At first she didn’t pay attention to the words, but another uncontrolled sensation overcame her as his eyes locked to her again, and she felt him singing to her, the words penetrating through her heart like he meant every one.

_“. . . listen closely to what I say . . . and if you do this, it will help you some sunny day. Oh, take your time, don’t live too fast. Troubles will come . . . and they will pass. You’ll find a woman . . . and you’ll find love.”_

Her breath caught in her lungs and she felt the tears sting her eyes. Training her eyes on the man on the stage, she watched as he immersed himself into the song, letting his head fall back as his voice rose, singing the chorus from deep within himself.

_“Be a simple kind of man, be a something you love and understand.”_

Sweat glistened across his brow, making his hair stick to his head and neck. The white cotton shirt clung to his skin, his muscles flexing as he pulled air through his lungs and music through his body. Pansy wasn’t sure if she had ever felt such an intoxicating and overwhelming sensation take over all of her senses. She closed her eyes, letting her ears take in each note as Charlie’s voice lowered and slowed with next part.

_“Get your lust . . .  from the rich man’s gold. All that you need now is in your soul - you can do this, oh baby if you try.”_

She sighed, opening her eyes to see him staring directly at her. The hair raised on her arms and legs from his direct attention, while the tears finally escaped their confines and streamed down her face.

_“Don’t worry,  you’ll find yourself. Follow your heart and nothing else. You can do this, baby, if you try.”_

With a deep breath, he threw his head back again and finished the song with vigor and strength - things she realized always embodied Charlie. While he was a man of adventure and daring, he was a man of kindness and goodness - a man that lived with his heart and soul, with what made him feel alive and absolutely nothing else would suffice.

At that moment, she realized that not only did she want to be that; she wanted to be that with him. She wanted to live her life uninhabited - she wanted to continue her job, answer to no one but who had her best interest at heart. She wanted to be happy, and while she wasn’t sure if she deserved it, she wanted him.

The round of applause broke her reverie. There were women bouncing on their feet as they clapped and shouted towards the man on stage. She noted the way her stomach turned to acid and burned with jealousy. The only thing holding her back from sending multiple jinxs into the crowd was that Charlie was headed her direction. He simply stepped from the platform, swung his guitar behind his back, and walked through the pub.  Maneuvering around tables and past people, he came to stand in front of her, and pulled her to him.

She noted his damp shirt, flushed face, and brilliant deep blue eyes before he grabbed her face and crushed his lips down on hers. If any part of what was left unsaid between them lingered, this kiss filled in the blanks. He consumed her and she let him. He took every part of her that was insecure and filled in the cracks with confidence and love.

He broke the kiss too quickly, but left his hands firmly on her shoulders. The patrons had resumed their evening, a new singer beginning their song. He kissed her forehead and pulled away to remove the guitar.

Setting the instrument in the chair, he turned to her again. Tears were barely holding onto her lashes as her heart beat heavily against her ribs. Her stomach was in knots and it felt like blood was rushing through her ears. This was her moment to make a choice - to step away from all that was ingrained in her since she was a little girl. She stood here, ready to make her own path, yet fear lingered and weighed her down.

She reached for Charlie and he pulled her to him. Her face pressed into his shirt, and she inhaled the scent of smoke, tree sap, and the musky scent of Charlie. The aroma washed over her like the comfort of a duvet on a cold night. He pulled her back, grabbed her chin, and tilted it up to him. The smile on his face stole her breath, and the way his eyes both twinkled in delight and mischievousness had her smiling despite her efforts not to. He kissed her lightly on the nose and then her lips before pulling back and saying, “Pans, follow your heart. You don’t answer to anyone, but it’s your life - live it with a purpose.”

* * *

A year had passed since she had returned to her parents and let them know she would be marrying no one - pureblood, Muggle, witch, or wizard. She wanted to pursue her career, and she didn’t want to be held down by marriage, children, or what society thought of her. She expected to be disowned, but she had the pleasure of being ignored for a few months while she gladly accepted a position as the curator of the Wizarding Museum of Ancient Artefacts in Bucharest, Romania.

Thomas had not sent a return owl after her refusal of his marriage proposal. She was relieved to be free of that particular mess. Her parents didn’t mention if there were repercussions for her family since she had refused the contract, and she didn’t ask either.

Pansy had finally created something for herself that she felt passionate about. Renting a flat in the city, she found solace in having her own space. Those feelings of inadequacy were beginning to dissolve and she found that she didn’t mind showing her real personality - both bitchiness and the softer side. She loved her job, and for the first time in her life, she felt like she was good at something. While she poured herself into the museum, she still kept mainly to herself, and when she was drained, a certain dragon tamer would whisk her away for the weekend, reminding her to live with self worth.

 


End file.
